


The Night Circus

by KHansen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Circus, Fire, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I promise, If you haven't read The Night Circus book I highly recommend it, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by The Night Circus, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knives, M/M, Magic, POV Outsider, Psychological Horror, but it IS there technically, i feel like i'm cheating having the geraskier tag there bc it's not really featured lmfao, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, there's no actual depiction of character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: There is no sign announcing the event that popped up in the grassy knolls outside of Novigrad seemingly overnight; but, painted on the side of the black ticket booth in curling white letters and illuminated with tiny light bulbs isThe Night Circus.. /\ . /\ . /\ .No one knows where it came from. No one knows what it is. All they know is that the Night Circus has come to town.And you've been invited.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #7





	The Night Circus

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me what time period this is idk I just really like the aesthetic of The Night Circus

Black and white stripes adorn the tents that stretch high into the sky like jagged spires framing a squat castle. Yellow edison bulbs are strung across the way, music playing from tin speakers and echoing across the quiet field. Performers, all dressed in black and white, blend in with the tents until they step into one’s path, bright pops of vibrant color visible on their costumes. Clowns with curled hair and bright red noses, contortionists in polka-dotted leotards atop striped pedestals, even animals– but only the black and white ones– can be seen amongst the entertainment. 

There is no sign announcing the event that popped up in the grassy knolls outside of Novigrad overnight; but, painted on the side of the black ticket booth in curling white letters and illuminated with tiny light bulbs is  _ The Night Circus. _

Zofia was expecting to be unimpressed, she’s thirteen after all and circuses are for children; however, even she must begrudgingly admit that the Night Circus is like stepping into a fairy tale under a blanket of stars. Her dull black shoes shine with the light of the circus, the plain sleeves of her Sunday dress seem to shimmer with each swing of her arms, and she imagines if she could see her ugly mud-color eyes, even they would gleam with mystery, as beautiful as any princess’s. 

Her mother tells her not to speak so ill of herself, but Zofia is only stating the truth that her mother’s love is blind to.

She’s alone tonight, her father giving her some coins and sending her on her way when she asked if she could visit the circus, dared to go by her friends, and with her meager coin she steps up to the ticket booth and peers through the tinted glass.

There’s no one inside.

How can that be? She’s been standing in line for a quarter of an hour and seen a dozen people step up to the booth before being allowed entrance. Zofia cups her hands around her eyes and presses her face against the glass, using what little light can penetrate the tint to aid her search.

All she can see inside is the green grass that makes up the floor of the booth, not even a door to allow any sort of ticket vendor in. With a frown, Zofia glances behind her– she doesn’t want to hold up the line–

“Good evening.”

Zofia gasps and jumps away from the booth. There, behind the glass, stands a willowy man with small, round spectacles on his large, crooked nose. He wears a black waistcoat covered in white patches and a silver pocket watch chain hangs from his breast pocket. 

The man stands there and watches her for a few moments, allowing her to gather her thoughts as she glances at the rest of the booth again. She could have  _ sworn _ there was no one in there and no door to get in, so where did this man come from? 

After what’s probably too long a time to wait for someone to speak, the man opens his mouth. “Are you here to visit the Night Circus?” He has sharp teeth in his patient smile. Zofia thinks he might be a vampire. 

Zofia straightens her back– she’s a  _ teenager _ for fuck’s sake she shouldn’t be thinking such fanciful things– and lifts her chin, “Yes, sir. How much for a ticket?”

He raises his silver eyebrows at her, “You’re very polite. Go on in.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead, child,” the man nods his head at the open gates.

She frowns at him, “I’m not a child. And I’ve no ticket, sir, I need to buy one.”

“You already have,” he inclines his head towards her. 

“No I haven’t,” Zofia argues, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Check your pocket.”

With a huff, Zofia digs her hand into the left pocket of her dress. Empty. Smug that she’s about to prove the not-a-vampire man wrong, Zofia opens her mouth.

Only to be cut off. “Check your  _ other _ pocket.”

Scowling, she shoves her hand into her right pocket. She feels nothing but fabric until...  _ there. _ Paper brushes against her fingers, paper that she certainly didn’t have before. She rushes to pull it out.

An ornate ticket, white as snow and glittering in the electric lights, sits in her dark palms. “How did you put that in there?” Zofia demands, “What sort of magic trick is this?”

“I am no magician,” the man shakes his head, “I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a ticket seller.”

“I can be both.”

Zofia ponders his statement before silently agreeing. “You still haven’t told me how a ticket got into my pocket.”

“It would seem,” the doctor slash ticket seller tilts his head curiously, “that someone wants you to go in. I recommend accepting their hospitality before their patience wanes due to your incessant questions.”

“My mother says asking questions makes us smarter.”

“Your mother is a wise woman.”

The girl looks down at the ticket, the same curling script spelling out  _ The Night Circus _ on the paper in black ink. She then glances at the circus, watching a woman vault on a zebra in the crowd, before looking back at the man. “Who wants me to go in?”

The pause between her question and his reply is filled with the weight of a thousand feathers, tickling her throat and tingling her fingers which grasp the ticket tightly. The answer feels as though it could change the course of her life forever; and perhaps that’s a bit theatrical for an almost-woman but Zofia has always had a flair for the dramatic.

The man’s voice is quiet, conspiratorial, as he gives her the solution to her worldly problems. “I suggest you go inside and find out.”

Zofia glances at the circus again, a decision to be made.

She takes a step towards the stripes.

When she looks back at the booth, it’s empty.

. /\ . . . . .

It’s quieter than she thought it would be.

Of course, it’s not  _ quiet, _ no circus is truly quiet– the music is loud, vendors shout their wares, the laughter of a crowd after a particularly impressive trick showers the night in joy– but something about it all is subdued. Maybe Zofia is going crazy, senile at the ripe age of thirteen, but it’s almost as though something is  _ missing. _ With a black and white bag of roasted peanuts in hand, she wiggles through the throng of people to the front of an audience.

Upon a tall pedestal a woman contorts herself into odd shapes, spelling unknown words in a language spoken only by her brown limbs. Zofia tilts her head, a purple ribbon stands out brightly against the woman’s bare forearms. 

Isn’t it uncomfortable? Zofia wonders, idly twisting her wrist to imitate the contortionist as the woman ties herself into a knot. Surely, it can’t feel  _ good. _ She hisses softly as her wrist protests the unnatural angle and she flaps her hand to loosen it again. 

The woman lifts her head and makes eye contact with Zofia.

Her eyes are as violet as her ribbon.

Zofia’s jaw drops, her lips parting with a surprised gasp. Never in her life has Zofia seen eyes as colorful as the contortionist’s, and the woman holds the girl’s gaze as she unfurls herself to stand up straight.

She extends her hand to Zofia, her hair falling around her shoulders in comely curls. Zofia swallows and glances around before silently pointing to herself, a question in the prod of her finger. The woman nods.

Zofia steps forward, tucking her peanuts in her pocket and taking the woman’s hand.

“What is your name, child?” Her voice is like flowing silk, whispering against ankles as it pools on the floor.

“Zofia,” she replies softly before blinking and scowling, “And I’m  _ not _ a child.”

“Of course not,” the woman replies magnanimously.

Feeling a bit as though she’s floundering at sea, Zofia boldly holds the woman’s piercing gaze, “What’s  _ your _ name?”

The woman has a pleasant smile. “Yennefer.”

“Would you like to assist me, Zofia?”

She looks up at Yennefer and nods silently. She wonders what it is Yennefer will have her do; perhaps bend herself in half? Twist her arms together until she resembles an unruly plait? Tuck her leg behind her head? 

Yennefer squeezes Zofia’s hand, recapturing the girl’s attention. “I need you to hold this box open,” Yennefer sweeps her other hand dramatically towards a clear glass box that Zofia is quite certain wasn’t on the pedestal with them before. Yennefer must have assistants hidden in the darkness between the tents. 

“Is that all?” Zofia is almost affronted. Does Yennefer think she can’t do anything more? Is Zofia truly so useless?

“It’s extremely important that the box remains open until I tell you,” Yennefer says gravely. “Do you understand, Zofia?”

With a sudden sobriety, Zofia nods, her eyes wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Yennefer smiles, all teeth, and releases Zofia’s hand to place the box in between them. Zofia unlatches the lid and lifts it. The box can’t be any larger than a medium-sized dog– perhaps a small dalmatian, or maybe a large terrier– and Zofia wonders what Yennefer intends to do with it.

Her curiosities are sated almost immediately as Yennefer steps into the box, raising herself on her bare tip toes with her ankles crossed. She then lowers herself slowly, tucking her shoulders between her knees and folding her head down as she rolls her spine forward. “You may close the lid, Zofia.”

Zofia licks her lips and nods, gently lowering the top of the box and latching it shut. The audience murmurs its awe and the girl crouches to try and make eye contact with Yennefer. Does she need to be let out again?

A light bulb pops with the shattering of glass, the crowd gasping in shock. Zofia looks up at the commotion. Across the way, one of the edison bulbs is missing and there’s a small ring of people around where the glass rained down upon the grass and relieved laughter bursts like popcorn in the night. No one is hurt.

Zofia turns her attention back to the box.

Yennefer is gone.

“Yennefer?” Zofia whispers. She looks around. She doesn’t spy the contortionist’s dark hair in the crowd, nor in the shadows behind the pedestal. All that’s left is a violet ribbon in the box.

Zofia opens the box again, intending to give the ribbon to… well, she doesn’t know who but  _ someone. _ As she pulls the strip of silk out of the box, a black piece of paper flutters to the ground. She stoops down to pick it up.

_ You’re brave. This is for you. _

She holds the ribbon delicately, running it through her fingers. It looks extra vibrant against her black skin and Zofia cherishes it as she tucks it into her pocket with the ticket. With one last glance towards the box, she hops down off of the platform and heads back into the crowd, pulling her peanuts from her other pocket.

The stars keep silent vigil overhead.

. /\ . /\ . . . .

Zofia wanders, aimless in her exploration of the circus, and finds herself running out of peanuts in front of one of the small tents with no bins in sight. Perhaps there’s one inside? She hears gasps and cheers coming from behind the striped flaps that hang heavy in the still night. 

_ Shrike the Magnificent _ is written in the same swooping scrawl of the Night Circus on a sign that hangs over the opening. Curious, Zofia pushes a flap aside to duck into the tent. 

The light is low, an ominous red that flickers like fire as it licks the sides of the tents. A small audience sits in a semicircle, and in the center of it is a large wheel. Leather straps hang from the wheel, and a ticking arrow is at the apex, pointing to a section of the wheel that simply says “knives”.

Zofia looks around at the unnaturally still audience, almost statuesque– like dolls– before stepping further into the tent. She could have sworn she heard voices, and yet there’s not a whisper of even a drawn breath to punctuate the silence that presses in on her. Cautiously, she approaches one of the audience members.

Reluctant to break the silence herself, Zofia reaches out to gently touch the arm of the nearest audience member: a woman with long emerald skirts and an ugly orange handbag on her lap. She holds her breath as her fingers reach for the puffy shoulder of the woman’s jacket. She can’t see the woman’s ample bosom rising and falling. 

Zofia’s fingertips brush the woman’s sleeve. 

“Shh! The show’s about to begin!”

The woman is glaring at Zofia, a finger pressed to her ruby lips. Zofia feels confusion first, then anger. She hadn’t even said a word! Why is she being shushed for something she did not do? She’s no  _ toddler, _ Zofia knows not to be intrusive. She’s nearly an adult! To be shushed like a child, not even reprimanded for touching the woman– no, she was  _ shushed. _ It’s an affront to her very being!

Zofia opens her mouth to tell this woman off when hand clamps down on her shoulder, making her squeak instead. Her head jerks up to meet eyes the color of the earth after rain. This woman has pale skin and a soft jaw, but a severe haircut that sharpens the plains of her face. She wears black trousers and a white short sleeve shirt, a blood red waistcoat cutting a striking figure.

“And who might you be?” The woman purrs.

The girl swallows, “I’m Zofia.”

“Zofia, hm? Where’re your parents, Zofia?” The woman bends at the waist to be eye level with Zofia. She feels as though this woman can see into her very soul. “Children shouldn’t be left unattended.”

Zofia puffs out her cheeks, frustration warring with the fear that trembles her hands. “I’m not a  _ child.” _

“Oh, aren’t you? So, I don’t suppose you’d want to  _ volunteer _ for my act, would you?”

Zofia feels as though she’s walked into a trap. The trouble is, she’s not sure what sort of trap she may have waltzed into.

The way she sees it, she has two options. She can either admit she’s a child and beg freedom from volunteering in this woman’s– the Shrike, she presumes– act. Or, she can become a part of something possibly involving knives, if the wheel is anything to go by. She knows what the safe option would be.

She’s never seen herself as a safe sort of girl.

“I do.”

“Wonderful!” The Shrike claps her hands together, straightening up immediately and ushering Zofia towards the stage. “Come, come, we’ve lots to do and so little time.”

“What is there to do? I’ve only just met you.”

“And that’s precisely why there’s so much, you need to make up for lost time, Zofia.”

The way the Shrike says her name, like it’s something morbidly fascinating, rankles her and makes her skin crawl. It’s the same way her brother speaks of spiders or her sister of corpses. Something incredibly interesting but frightening all the same.

“Do you know what this is, Zofia?”

She looks up to see the Shrike holding a small, diamond shaped blade, a ring on the end of the handle. It looks light and easy to wield, the Shrike proving the matter as she flips it over in her hand with practiced ease. Zofia realizes she hasn’t replied when the Shrike raises a dark eyebrow at her.

“A throwing knife.”

“Correct,” the woman nods, stalking closer and circling Zofia like she’s prey. “And do you know what I aim to do with this knife, Zofia?”

“Throw it, I assume.”

The Shrike’s smile grows into a grin, meanly baring her teeth at the girl. “Clever. No, I intend to give it to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, Zofia.”

“Why do you keep saying my name?” Zofia frowns at the Shrike.

The Shrike shrugs dismissively, “It’s not very memorable, I’m ensuring I  _ do _ remember it.”

Zofia’s frown deepens into a scowl,  _ “I’m _ not the one with a silly moniker instead of my name announcing my act. Forgettable, indeed, if you must use a separate title.”

“Oh!” The Shrike’s grin becomes one of delight, her dark eyes glittering dangerously, “The little bird’s got teeth!”

She very nearly growls, “Quit calling me things that I am not. I am not a child, I am not a  _ bird, _ I am just Zofia. Just a girl.” Zofia realizes her hands are clenched into fists and carefully takes a deep breath to calm herself, letting her anger leave her on her exhale. “What is it you wanted me to do, Shrike?”

The Shrike flips the throwing knife again before holding it out to Zofia by the handle. “Go on, take it.”

Zofia glances up at the Shrike’s face, searching for any signs that she should do the opposite. When she finds none, she takes the knife gingerly. “Now what?”

“Throw it.”

“At what?”

The Shrike rolls her eyes, crossing her arms, “The wheel of course.”

“Of course,” Zofia grumbles. She carefully turns the knife over in her hands, running her fingers along the leather wrapped hilt and lightly touching the tip of the blade. She winces as it pricks her finger, drawing a single bead of blood. Sharper than she expected.

With another quick look to the Shrike for guidance that doesn’t come, she turns the knife in her hand once more to find a comfortable grip. Zofia swallows audibly. Her heart hammers in her chest. What if she can’t do it?

“What are you waiting for, girl? Throw it!”

The Shrike’s command startles Zofia badly enough that she instinctively follows it, hurling the knife at the wheel. The blade spins in the air, twirling faster than her eyes can track. With a dull  _ thunk _ the knife embeds itself into the wood. The section of wheel it sticks out of is labeled “live”.

“Oh, very well done,” the Shrike nods, “you’ll do nicely, Zofia.”

Zofia’s not sure she wants to stay in this tent, let alone continue with the Shrike’s act. “Nicely for what?”

The lights extinguish abruptly. A spotlight shines. There, strapped to the wheel, is a girl about Zofia’s age with long brown hair and large, frightened eyes the color of the earth after rain. She’s dressed in a gown befitting a princess.

“Go on, throw the knife.”

A new knife is pressed into Zofia’s hand. The Shrike’s voice seems to come from all around her.

“What?” Zofia gasps, looking around the darkness. The girl on the wheel whimpers.

“Throw it. Just like you did before.”

Zofia grits her teeth, looking down at the knife in her hand and then the girl on the wheel. “I won’t! This is  _ your _ bloody act, Shrike, I rather think  _ you _ ought to be the one throwing the knives.”

There’s complete silence. And then

“I think you might be right.” The Shrike sounds like she’s directly behind Zofia. She spins around. There’s only more darkness. 

“Show yourself!”

“Okay.”

The spotlight turns on Zofia. She tries to raise her hand to shield her eyes but something holds her in place. With her heart racing, she turns her head to look at her wrists. Leather straps are buckled around them. 

She’s strapped to the wheel.

Just barely, through the glare of the spotlight, can Zofia see the Shrike. Her eyes are bright in the darkness, her shiny hair a halo around her pale face. Her grin, still firmly planted on her lips, is gruesome. Zofia shudders. 

“Let me go!”

“You said I should throw the knife, Zofia.” The Shrike reasons. 

Zofia shakes her head as she tries to pull free. “Not at me!”

The Shrike ignores her as she stalks to the wheel, gripping the edge of it in one hand, “Let’s make it interesting, shall we?”

“I’d prefer not to, to be quite honest with you!”

The Shrike hums, “We already did what you wanted, now it’s my turn. It’s only fair, girl.”

“What I wanted didn’t hurt anybody,” Zofia argues. The Shrike uses her full body to pull down on the wheel, making it spin. The arrow at the top ticks against wooden pegs. Zofia feels like she might be sick.

“You know, people call me crazy?” The Shrike says conversationally. 

“Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

“How hurtful, Zofia,” The Shrike sounds wounded but Zofia can’t focus on anything long enough to see if the woman  _ looks _ hurt. Her head spins. “Just for that, I’m going to throw  _ three _ knives instead.”

“Let! Me! Down!” With each shouted word, she yanks on the straps. The leather groans against her weight. It must be very old.

“I’ll count to three, how’s that?”

Zofia screams her wordless rage, terror making her thrash in her bonds. She’s almost certainly going to be sick.

“One.”

The leather of the left strap feels like it loosens. Zofia pulls harder on it.

_ “Two.” _

She thinks she hears the whisper of a knife being pulled from a sheath. The leather gives a bit more.

“Three!”

The strap breaks. Zofia pulls her arm free. She throws it up to cover her face. 

_ Thunkthunkthunk. _

The tent is silent save for her erratic breathing. Zofia uncovers her eyes.

She’s laying flat on her back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling and trembling like a leaf. Her head spins and she rolls onto her side to retch. Nothing comes up. 

Shivering, Zofia gets to her feet. There, in the left sleeve of her shirt, is a small hole, its edges jagged as though sawn through with a knife. She looks up at the wheel. Three knives are embedded deep in the wood, a scrap of white fabric pinned beneath one of them.

The tent is completely empty. 

Zofia shakily approaches the wheel. The fabric matches the missing part of her shirt. Woven into the fabric is a sewing needle. For reasons unknown to her, Zofia grabs the needle and shoves it into her pocket with the ribbon and the ticket. She flees the tent on legs made of jelly.

The section of the wheel with the fabric simply says “sharp”.

. /\ . /\ . /\ . . .

Zofia runs as fast as her feet can carry her, flying through the circus with her hair falling free of the high puffs her mother had tied it up in. Her breath tears at her throat and tears blur her vision as she blindly darts through tents. She doesn’t watch where she’s going, just desperate to get away from that tent, from the knives and the Shrike. 

So, it’s not surprising that she runs straight into somebody.

She bounces off of them with a grunt, falling to the ground and landing on her palms. They sting with the impact and Zofia sobs softly as she protectively curls up. This was a mistake, she should have never come here. She let her pride get the best of her, there was a reason her friends were frightened of the circus and this must be it. She wants to go  _ home. _

To her mother and the gumbo she made last night. To her siblings and their waiting arms. To her father and the car he’s fixing up in the garage. To her friends and the hopscotch they have drawn into the sidewalk. She doesn’t want to be here anymore.

“Are you alright?” A kind voice asks. She can’t think of what the voice sounds like– maybe everything? Nothing? It’s full like the universe but singular like an atom and it’s confusing but comforting all the same. A gentle hand is laid upon Zofia’s shoulder and she flinches.

The hand withdraws and she immediately is both relieved and misses the tender touch.

“Child?” The voice asks again.

“Not a child,” Zofia sniffles. The voice chuckles softly.

“Perhaps. Do you need help?”

She sniffs again and shuffles into a seated position, wiping her wet eyes on her sleeve and looking around. Zofia doesn’t know where she is, the tents around them much smaller than any of the performing ones, and very dark. She looks up at the person she ran into.

Platinum blonde hair frames a narrow face and emerald eyes. She wears a black jacket with white trousers, a blue sash tied around her waist, and she has a hat tucked under her arm. She looks like the ringmaster.

“I… I’m lost,” Zofia admits in a small voice. 

The ringmaster nods with a sweet smile, holding out her hand to Zofia. The girl takes it and then hisses as her palm burns. 

“Oh dear,” the ringmaster tuts as she flips Zofia’s hand over, “You’ve gone and scraped them all up. Come along, dear, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

Zofia pulls her hand away, hunching her shoulders in. “Please,” she whispers, “I just want to go home.”

“And go home you shall,” the woman stands up but doesn’t leave Zofia’s side, “I just want to make sure you’re going home all in one piece.”

Silence stretches between them as Zofia considers the offer and the ringmaster waits patiently for the girl to think. Finally, she stiffly nods and gets to her feet, carefully brushing the dirt off of her skirt. She glances up at the ringmaster, awaiting her lead, and the woman takes off in the direction of the largest tent in the circus. Zofia stumbles over her feet to keep up with the woman’s long strides.

“What’s your name?” Zofia asks quietly, her curiosity getting the better of her fear.

“Cirilla Fiona Elena Rhiannon,” the ringmaster replies cheerfully, “But you can just call me Ciri.”

“Ciri.”

“Yes?”

Zofia takes pause, she was just trying Ciri’s name out on her tongue, not actually trying to get the woman’s attention. “What do you do here?” She decides to ask. “Are you the ringmaster?”

“I am,” Ciri nods with a smile, “I run the circus.”

“So you chose for it to set up here?”

“Nope.”

Zofia frowns in confusion, “Who did, then?”

“The keeper of the circus.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Ciri shrugs, not looking particularly bothered by this, “I never knew them. I joined the circus after they became keeper.”

“And you don’t meet them?” Zofia’s frown deepens, “That seems odd.”

“Oh, I’m certain I’ve met them,” the ringmaster shakes her head and turns down a corridor of tents. They’re almost to the Big Top, the large tent standing twice as tall as any other and flying black and white flags at the peak of each pole. 

“I’m confused,” Zofia admits and Ciri laughs.

She’s grinning as she glances down at Zofia, “I would imagine so. From what I understand, the Keeper is selected by the oldest acts of the circus, only they know the true identity of the Keeper. It’s important that they remain anonymous.”

“Why?”

“Names are a powerful thing, girl. Given freely, they’re a gift. But when taken, they’re a weapon. Some of us guard our names more fiercely than others.”

“You gave me your name,” Zofia points out, “And so did Yennefer. But not the Shrike.”

“Ah, you met Shrike, did you? No wonder you were running like a bat out of hell.” Ciri has a contemplative look on her face as she watches Zofia for a few quiet moments. “What’s your name, girl?”

“I’m not sure I ought to give it to you now.”

Ciri grins and winks, “Clever. I can assure you, I will not take your name.”

“Hm. Zofia, then.”

“Zofia, that’s a lovely name. How nice to meet you, Zofia.”

“Likewise, Ciri.”

Ciri pulls open a flap at the back of the Big Top and bows out of the way so that Zofia may enter first. It’s clear to her that Ciri has taken her to the back of the tent, performers warming up or sitting before vanities to apply makeup. Clowns toss white bowling pins back and forth, a strongman lifts a comically heavy weight, acrobats stretch and a ballerina goes through her forms. 

Ciri leads her to a small office, opening the door and allowing her entry. Sitting at the desk inside is the ticket selling doctor.

“You!” Zofia exclaims in surprise. “I thought you sold tickets?”

“Regis is also a doctor,” Ciri gently steers her towards a cot pressed up against the wall and Regis gets to his feet with a pleasant smile.

“He told me that too.”

“I do not lie, child.” Regis walks closer with a medical bag in hand.

“I’m not a child,” Zofia grumbles, “I’m Zofia.”

Regis nods as he pulls a stool over and perches his thin body upon it, “Wonderful to make your acquaintenance, Zofia.”

Zofia hums, feeling very tired all of a sudden. The air in the office is warm and smelling strongly of herbs. She sags on the cot, all the energy sapped from her in record time. Regis flips her hands over, observing the abbrasions on her palms, and opens his bag. 

“All you need,” he says quietly. His skin is ice cold against hers. “Is a little disinfectant. No bleeding that I can see.” He pours an orange liquid onto a white rag. “Iodine,” he explains without a question. He then swipes the rag over her palms, painting her skin a faint orange as well.

“Give it a few days and you’ll be right as rain, Zofia,” Regis nods firmly, “Any other aches or pains I should know about?”

Zofia rolls her shoulders and stretches her legs, humming and then shaking her head. Her limbs are in a state of pleasant buzzing, like the feeling of waking up on your birthday and knowing you’ll be getting cake and presents and a party just for you. She yawns, covering her mouth with her hand and letting her eyes slip shut.

“Regis,” Ciri says, a warning tone in her voice. 

“My most sincere apologies, Ciri,” Regis replies. The heady herbal scent recedes from the air and Zofia begins to wake up again. 

Zofia shakes her head to clear it, yawning again, “What was that?”

“Nothing to worry yourself about,” Ciri assures her, “We’re about to have our magic act on, would you like to see it?”

“I think I’d like to go home.”

Ciri crouches down in front of the cot, giving Zofia a charming smile, “Oh, come now. Surely you’re not leaving us so soon?”

Zofia hems and haws, glancing towards the office door, “I… I’m rather afraid to stay.”

“Why?”

“I feel as though something terrible is going to happen.” Unease has plagued her ever since she gave the Shrike her name. “And the Shrike frightened me something fierce.”

Ciri frowns softly, her green eyes filled with concern. “I can assure you, Zofia, I will not let the Shrike harm a hair on your head.”

Zofia glances down at the floor, the first wooden floor she’s seen all night. “And the terrible feeling?”

“No harm will come to you, darling girl,” Ciri smooths a hand down Zofia’s arm, loosely holding the girl’s wrist instead of her scraped palm, “I promise.”

Zofia still feels uneasy, swinging her feet nervously and gnawing on her lower lip, “Are you sure?”

“Positive. And to ease your worries, I’m going to give you something of mine. They always bring me luck, and I hope they’ll bring you the same.” Ciri turns Zofia’s palm up and drops a few small objects into it, curling Zofia’s fingersa round the prizes. “Now, how about that magic? Huh?”

She takes a deep, steadying breath. She’s thirteen years old, she knows magic isn’t real– just smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand, attention redirected and lies wrapped up in mystery. But she can’t deny the thrill she gets every time she sees a magic trick performed successfully and she can’t figure out how it was done.

“Okay,” Zofia smiles a little and Ciri beams as though Zofia’s just gifted her the moon.

“Wonderful! I’ll go find you a seat, I’ll return soon.” The ringmaster stands up again, reaching out to gently caress Zofia’s wild hair, “You’re very strong, Zofia. I admire that in you.”

She flushes and ducks her head, murmuring her thanks and staring at her clenched fist. The moment Ciri is out of the room she opens her hand.

A half dozen small, emerald beads gleam in her palm.

. /\ . /\ . /\ . /\ . .

Ciri seems to have secured her the best seat in the house, for Zofia is located directly in the center of the audience at such a height that she can see all of the rings but not so high that she can’t make out the intricate details of the Big Top. There are runes of some sort etched into the wooden tent poles, carved into the dirt floor, painted on the rings. Were Zofia a more fanciful person, she would say they’re a sort of magic.

But Zofia isn’t that sort of person, and now that she’s gotten things a bit more under control again she’s able to explain away the odd happenings she’s seen thus far. Yennefer disappearing was probably a trap door in the box. The Shrike getting her strapped down was an illusion, a trick of the light that disoriented her. Even Regis appearing in the ticket booth was probably a hidden door that was just very cleverly concealed by immaculate paint and a darkened window.

Still, she can’t stop the buzz of excitement that permeates the crowd while the lights dim from affecting her. She sits up higher in her seat, the bag of popcorn Ciri got her sitting forgotten in her lap as she eagerly awaits the show. 

With a loud and sudden fanfare, a brass band plays on while a spotlight shines in the center of the rings. Ciri stands there with her hat tilted in such a way that it obscures her face, her feet placed perpendicular to each other and a black baton in hand. The band quiets as a hush falls over the crowd.

“Welcome, one and all!” Ciri calls out, her voice powerful and booming. “Welcome to  _ The Night Circus! _ We aim to entertain and mystify even the most cynical critics with our acts that defy even Mother Nature herself. Starting off with our most heartbreaking performance.  _ The Dueling Magicians.” _

The band plays a mysterious theme that carries a sad harmony within it and Zofia finds herself wanting to know more.

“A long time ago, many years before even the Continent was formed, magic was prominent amongst the people who lived here,” Ciri sweeps her baton over her head and a sparkling line bursts from the tip, the line shaping itself in the air to form the Continent. “But, as all things are wont to do, the magic began to fade from the land with the advancement of technology. First the wheel, then stone tools to later be replaced with iron, and then copper.”

The audience is silent, engrossed in the story.

“All that remained of the magic before lived on in two men. One, a being of light and day, he harnessed the magic of the sun, the heat of the summer, the gold of harvest. So enveloped by the heavens was he that his hair was bleached, never to have color in it again.” The line shapes itself into the visage of a man with long hair, his hands raised towards the sun.

“The other, a man of the night. A son of the moon and the stars. Galaxies live in his eyes and wishes in his fingers, the darkness of space living within him.” The line forms a pair of eyes, sparkling a bright and vibrant blue. “The two men were complete opposites, differing in every way, and because of that they fought frequently and with a ferocity unparalleled by anything on Earth.

“Their battles shook the ground, shattered the sky. They brought lightning from storms brewed by anger, tsunamis born of the fury of a thousand tears. Nothing could tame the wildness of the magicians. Nothing,” she pauses dramatically, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial smile, “but the Night Circus. Here, they found solace, a reprieve from the forces of nature that plagued their every argument. Their magic is true, and still they live in calamity, but the power of the Night Circus is such that, as you witness one of their battles tonight, you will be unharmed and amazed by the might of these magicians.”

“So,” Ciri snaps the baton and the line bursts into a shower of sparks, “Without further ado, I present to you:  _ The Dueling Magicians!” _

Raucous applause bursts from the audience, cheers and whistles and stomping feet betraying the excitement of the crowd. The earth itself seems to tremble and Zofia’s stomach swoops while something like wonder fills her lungs. The spotlight remains on Ciri as she sweeps into a low bow, then separates into two lights that widen into large circles that overlap.

Stood within them are two men, one with dark hair dressed in a snow white three-piece suit, save for his waistcoat which is jet black, and the other with long white hair and a black suit, his waistcoat perfectly white. Upon the breast of the dark-haired magician is a golden pocket square, and that of the white-haired magician is a sky blue one.

It starts, as all things do, with a spark. 

A small fire dancing in the palm of the sun magician. He tosses it from hand to hand, almost thoughtfully, as he sizes up his opponent. Zofia can swear she sees the moon magician speak, far too quiet to be heard by the audience as the band accompanies the beginnings of the battle with a quiet swell, and the sun magician’s lips twitch.

And then there’s fire. Burning bright and hot across the ring. Straight at the moon magician.

The moon magician throws his hands up, water erupting from the ground. The fire and water meet with a hiss and a flare of bright light. Zofia finds herself hard pressed to explain  _ this. _

She watches, enraptured, as they engage in a battle so fluid it could be considered dancing. They tumble and twirl around one another, magic bursting from their palms, from the ground, from the very audience themselves. It’s beautiful. It’s deadly.

So engrossed is she that she doesn’t smell the smoke curling under the edges of the tent. She doesn’t feel the heat licking the wooden seats. She doesn’t taste the acid of ash in the air. It isn’t until the screams begin that the spell the magicians hold over the audience is broken.

_ “Fire!” _

The crowd moves as one, jostling and bumping and shoving at one another to escape. Zofia jumps to her feet, her popcorn spilling across the floor. The magicians have split up, performers streaming out of the back room. They direct traffic as best they can, trying to ease the chaos.

Zofia is knocked to the ground. Feet trample over her. She feels something in her arm pop. Agony shoots through her. She shrieks.

Another stomp cracks something in her ribs.

She doesn’t even see the foot that hits her head.

Zofia isn’t asleep for long, waking up to a throbbing pain in her arm and head. Each breath is excruciating. And hot.

The timber of the tent groans as fire licks at the structure. The black and white stripes are curdling, flaking away with each chunk of canvas devoured by the flames. Zofia can see the stars.

A pole cracks. The tent begins to collapse. 

She’s going to die.

Zofia closes her eyes tightly, awaiting the blow that will kill her.

It never comes.

“Geralt!” A strained voice calls out. Zofia cracks her eyes open.

The moon magician stands over her, hands raised and knees bent as though bracing himself. The tent is held in place only inches from his fingers. But it does not fall.

“Geralt!” He shouts again, as loud as he can with the smoke choking his lungs. “I need you!”

“Jaskier!” 

She feels light headed. Smoke inhalation, she would think. She’s dizzy and each breath is harder to grab than the last.

_ “Jaskier!  _ Where are you?”

The moon magician grunts and the tent shifts, sliding closer a half an inch. She can see his arms trembling and sweat drips through the soot on his neck. “Stands! Quickly!”

Footsteps thunder across the wooden bleachers. How they haven’t burned away completely, Zofia isn’t sure. She blinks, her eyes burning, and the sun magician is suddenly there.

“Jaskier, let me–”

“The new Keeper, love! Get the Keeper!”

The sun magician– Geralt– looks around, his golden eyes landing on her. With a determined nod he scoops Zofia into his arms. He hesitates, looking back at Jaskier.

_ “Go!” _

He runs.

The last thing Zofia remembers is the feeling of the cool night air on her face. And then nothing.

She wakes up abruptly in her bed at home, her lungs free of the ache of smoke and her body whole and hale. She trembles, clutching her sheets tightly to her. It can’t have all been a dream, it  _ can’t. _ It felt too real.

Zofia sits up and blindly reaches for the lamp on her bedside table, switching it on quickly. The shadows in the corners of her room are chased away, the familiar sight of her bedroom doing nothing to ease the thundering of her heart. 

She tries to catch her breath, surprised to find tears prickling her eyes. She won’t cry. She’s thirteen years old, she can handle a nightmare. 

She reaches for her glass of water on her bedside table and stops dead.

There, sitting in a glass box on the table, is a tiny circus. A sewing needle supports a tent formed of a violet ribbon on top of a stark white ticket, green beads strung on a blue and gold thread are like the edison lights that had twinkled against the night sky. Beside the glass box is a small, ancient looking book.

Lovingly pressed into the leather cover is the title:

_ The Keeper of the Night Circus _

. /\ . /\ . /\ . /\ . /\ .

The wind that blows at her loose braids is warm with the sweet scent of pollen in the summer sun, rustling the long grasses that sway at her feet. Clad in a pair of tight white breeches and tall black boots, the Keeper steps through the field to survey the land. Flat, with very little slope to be seen, and bereft of any small rocks or pebbles. 

She crouches down, pulling off a white glove, and digs her fingers deep into the soil. Moist, but not damp. Good for building, fertile for crops, and yet this land remains wild and untouched by man. It’s almost perfect. 

The Keeper stands again and withdraws a white handkerchief from the pocket of her black jacket, wiping her hand clean. She runs her bare fingers over the swell of her stomach and sighs, narrowing her eyes at the land. There’s something  _ missing. _

The Keeper clicks her fingers as she realizes what it is and digs in her pocket for a timepiece. She withdraws a silver pocket watch, the chain gleaming in a way that reminds her of one behind a tinted window so long ago. She’s much taller now, and quite a bit wiser if she does say so herself, living up to the meaning of her name in a manner her mother would be proud of.

She pops open the pocket watch and spins the minute hand with her finger, the sun blazing across the sky and setting with glorious reds and purples that color the clouds racing towards the horizon. The Keeper turns time until it’s fully dark and a blanket of stars covers the night sky. 

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes and tucking the watch away in her pocket. She has to focus, listening carefully to the quiet night for things that exist someplace  _ other. _ The Keeper waits, and waits, and waits a bit more, her patience stretching much farther than it used to, until…

_ There. _

The echoes of tinny music, of chatter and laughter and awe. The faint smell of roasted peanuts and sweet candy floss, of hard packed soil and freshly starched collars. The Keeper opens her eyes, her lips curling into a smile at the faded sight before her. Yes, this land will do perfectly. The circus deems it worthy.

The Keeper pulls a glass box from the bag on her back; a tiny circus, one built from a faded ticket, a violet ribbon, a silver sewing needle, and emerald beads strung on a golden thread, is contained within. Her smile warms into something familiar, the excitement of a thirteen year old girl bubbling through her as though she hasn’t aged a day. And she supposes, in a way, she hasn’t.

She rubs her hand over her swollen stomach again. “I can’t wait for you to meet them, Fringilla.”

The Night Circus is coming to town.

**Author's Note:**

> I would both kill and die for Zofia, comment if you agree.


End file.
